


Say Something

by akathecentimetre



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, F/M, Foursome - F/F/M/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Sexual Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-05-14
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1612274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/pseuds/akathecentimetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Constance doesn't expect what she and d'Artagnan get from their new neighbors; nor does she expect how it ends. Modern!AU. <b>Warnings:</b> emotional and sexual manipulation, totally irredeemable Milady.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say Something

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because of [a Tumblr graphic](http://themusketeers-screencaps.tumblr.com/post/85633992847/the-musketeers-cast-for-shoot-group) which was of these four, along with a caption which read "Present day AU bizarre love quadrangle" (you know who you are). And then I started listening to [Penatonix's cover of 'Say Something'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0dYlvdLdK9w) and this cliche-ridden angst poured out! Enjoy?

*

There’s a knock on their door mere hours after they arrive, when they’re still elbow-deep in boxes of shredded packaging and d’Artagnan’s only halfway through putting together the bedframe. It takes Constance longer than it should to open the door because she hasn’t yet gotten the hang of the locks and the hinges are stiff, so when she finally wrenches it open she’s sweaty and panting, and covered in dust, and the elegantly-dressed man standing across from her doesn’t seem that impressed.

A blink is all it takes for something approaching quiet amusement to suffuse across his face, however, and the bottle of expensive-looking wine he holds out to Constance goes a long way to redeeming his previously dour expression. “I’m told it’s the done thing,” he says. It comes out in a posh, lazy drawl. “Welcoming new neighbors, that is. We’re just across the landing.”

“Thank you,” Constance says, wiping off her hands before she takes the bottle; and she really is grateful, because she’s been dying for a drink ever since the movers dropped their first box at five o’clock that morning. “This looks fantastic.”

“Anne has good taste,” he shrugs, and Constance looks behind him to see what looks like a very beautiful, dark-haired head disappear beyond their doorjamb. She’s not sure whether to be flattered or somewhat alarmed at the thought that they were being watched. “And I’m Athos. Let us know if you need anything.”

“Constance. The big lump in there – ” who promptly obliges with a yelp of pain as he apparently drops something heavy onto some part of his person – “is d’Artagnan.”

“Pleasure,” Athos says, with a charmingly old-fashioned bow of the head. He looks tired, Constance thinks; henpecked, perhaps, like he’s been shoved out into the light just to be pleasant. “See you around, I suppose.”

She watches him go, listens for a moment to the murmur of voices, his and a woman’s, behind the closed door; and has no idea why she thinks that this encounter has been anything other than polite.

*

d’Artagnan enjoys the wine so much that he insists on reciprocating with an invitation to an impromptu happy hour, a few days later, when they’re finally unpacked enough that the living room looks vaguely livable and they know where the cocktail shaker, bottle opener, and glasses are kept. Constance teases him about him just wanting their neighbors to bring a whole case of it this time, and his nose wrinkles with adorable chagrin because he knows that _she_ knows that he really is just this sociable and eager to please, and is feeling just as insecure as she is in a new city with nothing to their names but their lease.

They do, in fact, bring another bottle with them in response to the note Constance slips under their door, except this time it’s Anne who is holding it, breezing into their space with an expression of predatory delight on her beautiful face. She is so gorgeous as to be threatening with it, and Constance finds herself thankful for the pressure of d’Artagnan’s hand on her lower back as the four of them sit and chat, for the reassurance that she can still be wanted when a woman such as this is in the room. She and Athos both review things for a living – he the opera, her fine wines, which explains her generosity – and by the time Athos stands and excuses himself so he can get to an evening performance Constance is entirely dazzled by them, and when she and d’Artagnan go to bed later that night, after Anne has sashayed her way home, he grins at Constance giddily, saying things like _Aren’t they brilliant_ and _What a stroke of luck_ and _Do you think they liked us?_

Anne falls simply and effortlessly into the rhythm of their days. With Constance and d’Artagnan scraping by on piecework – he as a messenger, her as a bespoke seamstress – and her work frequently over with by mid-morning, she insinuates herself elegantly into the corner of their sofa, sharing stories of dripping vineyards and leaves luxuriating in the sun from California to Russia and everywhere in between, combing her long-fingered hands through Constance’s unruly tangle of hair (“So pretty,” she murmurs) as she works. Constance smiles around the pins in her mouth, relaxes into the touch of Anne’s fingers as they skillfully work up long French braids, and come evening, they wait together for their men, giggling about things Constance had never realized she had an interest in, like celebrities and clothes that she didn’t make herself and the fine scents of perfume that Anne is so fond of (all variations on the theme of jasmine).

d’Artagnan joins them for dinner, ravenous and often dripping from the shower he takes as soon as he gets home to get rid of the sweat of a day’s worth of haring all over Paris on his bike; Athos arrives only much later, when they are already well on their way to tipsiness. Constance learns, over the weeks, how to tell what Athos’s evening has been like; if the Mozart was too slow, or the Bach too romantic, he is brittle and needled, and needs an hour or so of quiet to reorder his mind enough to join them in their conversation (and test out the put-downs he will write in his review the next morning, which are unexpectedly caustic and always hilarious); if the Brahms transports him, however, or the Schnittke remains just the right side of tonal, he appears in the doorway with a spring in his step and stares at Anne as though he has been reminded that there is beauty and purpose in the world, and Constance finds herself hoping that d’Artagnan (who is far too immediately passionate for such subtleties) could learn to convey just as much longing and slow-burning desire in one look.

She also finds herself wishing, over time, as the four of them slip ever further into each other’s routines – the girls cooking together, and d’Artagnan and Athos occasionally joining a group of acquaintances from work and old school friends for a kickabout in the quiet street outside – that Anne would not be quite so obvious with her growing hunger for something which, on the surface of it, seems to be Not Athos. She doesn’t understand, from what she knows of her friends, what on earth could be a source of tension between them; the most she understands is that Athos is somewhat sedentary while Anne is not, that he is content with comfort and love and the idea of the two of them being together, whereas she wants something more. She can see it in Anne’s ceaseless following of both her and d’Artagnan around their living room; she can see it in Athos’s studious avoidance of the barbs she throws his way, his insistence on denying that anything is wrong. Only occasionally does she see him look anxious, but when he does it is pathetic and lonely, as he watches Anne laugh with d’Artagnan, put her arm around Constance’s shoulders.

It is on the same day that she begins to wonder whether Anne and Athos even sleep in the same bed any longer that Constance realizes that Anne’s physical affections with them – her and d’Artagnan – are not those of a friend. At first, she doesn’t know whether to feel sorry for Athos, or flattered by the attraction – because it’s not as though she hasn’t thought about it. Far from it. She’s not sure when the thought first enters her head, though in retrospect she supposes it felt inevitable from the start, as Anne seeps slowly into their space, earns d’Artagnan’s adoration and Constance’s slightly desperate respect, and Athos turns from Her Husband into someone Constance finds handsome, and d’Artagnan wants to become.

She doesn’t think about acting on it, not at all. Until the evening in midsummer, when they are all sprawled in non-air conditioned, sweaty heat with three or four glasses of wine in their bloodstreams, and Anne leans in close to Constance, her perfume strong as it rises off of her skin, and, gesturing to the other sofa, murmurs “Aren’t they handsome, together?”

Constance turns and sees d’Artagnan curled slightly into Athos’s side; Athos’s hand, the one that isn’t holding his wine glass, is cupped around the back of d’Artagnan’s neck. It looks remarkably like an act of ownership, and when Anne’s lips ghost in close enough to brush down Constance’s neck she marvels at the thrill of it, the realization of what has suddenly been revealed as a long, slow act of seduction of them both.

It is beautiful, when d’Artagnan takes the initiative and kisses Athos, who is the only one who seems somewhat surprised by this development; and when Constance and Anne trip across the room to join them Constance is shocked by how good it feels, and how natural. She wouldn’t have expected this of d’Artagnan, his eagerness to share, his pride in how good Constance looks in their bed with Anne leaning over her in the dark, and Athos watching. She startles herself with her exhibitionism, taking her time to explore Anne’s body, making d’Artagnan curse under his breath.

They don’t leave the bedroom for two days, during which time Constance loses track of the combinations which Anne puts efficiently and lovingly into practice. d’Artagnan is familiar to her, but not like this, with Athos mouthing at the crook of his neck from behind, his thrusts pushing all the way through to Constance; Athos himself is both stronger and gentler than she would have expected as he fucks her into wakefulness on the second day. Anne dominates without needing to ask, and Constance finds that she likes it; she likes watching as Anne rides Athos or d’Artagnan into shouted climaxes, likes her white-knuckled grip around Constance’s thighs as they rut together; when her fingers press up inside of Constance she somehow knows just how to make her lose her ability to breathe.

They seem to fit together when they fall asleep, too, having discarded all the covers; the slightest movement wakes them all, settles them back down. She’s not sure she will ever get used to this, per se, but Constance finds herself thinking that even if this were all to end after that second night, it would have been worth it.

*

She hadn’t expected anything to be the same as before, not by a long way, but Constance is still surprised, in the weeks that follow, by how quickly Anne, as though their tryst had freed her from any sense of obligation, starts to disentangle herself from Athos in ways that are conscious and cruel. She takes d’Artagnan and Constance to bed in the evenings well before Athos arrives, and seems to be making sure that they are all asleep, or at least incapable of any more human contact, by the time he arrives, near midnight, from the Garnier or the Salle Pleyel; her smiles grow sharp when he enters a room, when he dares to invite d’Artagnan out for a game with the lads and they return sweaty and grinning; the spasm that crosses her face when Athos kisses Constance goodbye turns Constance’s stomach. He is an observant man, and sees that Constance is upset for his sake; his silent attempts at comforting her begin with squeezes of her hands to try to reassure her that he is alright, but as Anne’s campaign to shut him out continues it becomes clear that he is having trouble maintaining this charade.

Even d’Artagnan begins to notice; but it is Constance, when Anne is away on a two-day trip to Provence, who finally hears the truth of it, when, coming back from doing errands, she finds Athos sitting in their living room, halfway through a bottle of very expensive Merlot, barefoot and looking like he wished he was anywhere else.

“Thought d’Artagnan might have been here,” he explains half-heartedly as Constance busies herself with putting away her groceries. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“Nonsense,” Constance says, and runs quickly into the bedroom to change into a more comfortable shirt and kick off her shoes. “Can’t imagine it’s fun rattling around on your own. When’s Anne due back?”

“Not sure,” he says, sipping another mouthful as she comes back into the living room. “She’s traveling with my brother. They can get a bit – involved. In whatever they’re doing.”

Constance blinks, and, to occupy her hands with something, turns her attention to clearing up the wreckage of sewing that she had been working on earlier in the morning, which is spread all over the carpet, bristling with pins and needles. This is the first she’s heard of any family, and from the sudden stumble in his speech, she’s not sure Athos had intended to share anything about it.

“She wants a divorce,” Athos says abruptly, and Constance stills, swallows, turns to see him staring into the bottom of his empty glass as though he wishes it could provide answers to something, anything.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. She sits next to him, takes the glass out of his hands, replaces it with her fingers, squeezes tight, already thinking of how this is all going to end, how on earth she and d’Artagnan are going to extricate themselves. “When did she say that?”

“Six months ago.”

It comes out heavily, weighed down with guilt and only the faintest hope of forgiveness, and Cosntance’s breath catches in her throat as she realizes what it means, what Anne has been doing, what Athos has allowed to happen for what he thought was the sake of their marriage.

And what Anne wants, she thinks with sudden certainty, isn’t her – not Constance. She wants d’Artagnan, and if she can, she’ll take him.

“I’m sorry,” Athos says, and Constance quickly huddles him into her, whispers nothings that are meant to be comforting into his ear, telling herself that she will deal with her own regrets and the creeping sensation of nausea later. He clutches at her when she kisses him, and only draws back with what looks like a supreme effort.

“Tell me why we’re doing this,” Athos whispers, tracing a shaking hand across her cheek. “I need to hear it.”

Constance bites at her lip, and somehow, even now and here, loves the way his eyes are instantly drawn to her mouth at the sight. “Because right now, we both need someone.”

“Is that good enough?"

“For me, yes. It is.”

That seems, indeed, to be all he needs to hear, and as he crushes them together, and Constance arches into his touch, her mind races ahead of her in her pessimism, thinking, sadly enough that it brings tears to her eyes, that if she is to lose d’Artagnan, maybe this would make her feel better.

*

She finds out less than a week later, however, that her fears are unfounded. When Anne comes to d’Artagnan in private and asks him to leave with her – she has two tickets to San Francisco at the ready, apparently – he gives her no answer and instead comes straight back into his and Constance’s apartment; he tells her exactly what happened, and, pale and shaking, tells her that he’s sorry for ever letting Anne into their lives if she had ever made Constance unhappy. She sobs, ugly and relieved, into his shoulder for a long time before he kisses her on the forehead and goes back out to tell Anne in no uncertain terms that if she really wants to break Athos’s heart, she will have to do it alone.

d’Artagnan hangs back, hiding in their bedroom, as Constance watches Anne leave, her eye pressed to the peephole in their front door. She is as proudly upright and put-together as ever, wearing a long coat and tall heels, fresh polish on her nails as she wheels a suitcase out of their apartment. Only a stray hair dangling from the elegant twist at the back of her neck reminds Constance of anything to do with the woman they’d known in their bed, whispering their names. She winces at the sound of the iron gate of the old elevator slamming closed, and she waits a long few minutes, her heart pounding, before she thinks it’s safe to beckon d’Artagnan to join her, to cross the landing, and creep nervously through the other door to find Athos.

She expects chaos, but she is to be disappointed. Nothing is broken, everything is clean; a brief glimpse through the door to the bedroom reveals a neatly-made bed and drawers carefully shut. There is only Athos, then, sitting hunched on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his head bowed forward, shoulders collapsed in until his forehead touches the backs of his hands.

“Shit,” d’Artagnan bursts out, and he walks across the living room far faster than Constance would have ever dared, lifting Athos’s chin straight upwards and confronting him, like d’Artagnan always does, with reality. “Hey. Hey, c’mon…”

Athos blinks. “You’re still here,” he says, sounding small and confused, and Constance hurries to join them, putting a hand hesitantly on Athos’s shoulder.

“Of course I am,” d’Artagnan says, and Constance almost wants to stop him from being so honest, so very _him_ , because she’s not sure that this is what Athos needs; but it’s a bit late, now, to stop him. “You didn’t – you didn’t _really_ think – ”

There’s horror on d’Artagnan’s face, now, and he looks across at Constance, panicked.

“He’s the best of all of us,” she sighs, sitting down next to Athos and wrapping her arms around him, turning so they are both looking at d’Artagnan, and she tries to say _Thank you_ with her eyes. “I think we need to give the silly boy more credit, don’t you think?”

Athos lets out a sound that is a mockery of a laugh, but at least it’s something, and as d’Artagnan swoops down to press an urgent kiss into Athos’s mouth Constance thinks that this, maybe, could be the start of something new.

**FIN**


End file.
